Recent Posts

K is for kindness.
It’s really awkward when people are kind.
Okay, wait, that came across wrong. Let me rephrase:
Kindness from others feels really awkward when you don’t believe you deserve it.
There we go.
With or without a diagnosis of mental illness, low self-esteem is a huge problem for many of us. In my particular case, I have hated myself pretty much for as long as I can remember. I’ve probably spoken about this before, but it stemmed from being called ‘fat’ at school (by a right

The people have spoken. X is for...xylophones, obviously.
(“How the fuck is MB going to do this?!” I hear you cry. Well, I’m crying too because I don’t know either. Let’s just roll with it…)
I used to hate learning the piano. My fingers were stumpy, I was musically inept, and basically the whole saga needed to come to an end much sooner than it did. Mozart I was not.
My music teacher was very supportive (and possibly reading this too - hey, Mr W) and let me join our school’s chamber choir,

U is for university.
[TW for mentions of: self harm, overdoses, eating problems, suicide]
My uni years should have been the best time of my life. An abundance of new people, new experiences, new places, new everything - university is the climactic point of your late teens and early 20s. Three years, sometimes four, of fun and fiesta.
But it wasn’t.
Struggling with mental illness, but desperate to make friends, I tried to hide my problems as best I could in my first year of study, but mainly

I is for identity.
Who am I?
I am a sister.
Who am I?
I am a daughter.
Who am I?
I am a friend, a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter.
Who am I?
I am a patient.
Who am I?
I am impatient.
Who am I?
I am a blogger.
Who am I?
I am an over-sharer, an attention-seeker.
Who am I?
I am a perfectionist.
Who am I?
I am a failure.
Who am I?
I am a student, a learner.
Who am I?
I am lazy and ignorant.
Who am I?
I am active, I am passionate.
Who am I?
I am careful and thoughtful.
Who

V is for voices.
[TW: psychotic experiences]
I’ve never liked my voice. Watching old videos of me, or hearing myself in a recording, makes me cringe. I used to get teased at my Posh Private Primary School for the way I’d say words like “leggings” and “theatre”, because apparently kids find it hilarious when someone sounds different. Of course, I didn’t particularly let it affect me, but it did mean that, from then on, I was even more conscious of the way I spoke.
Anyone will tell you that I

Being diagnosed with OCD was one of the best days of my life.
…..
Yeah, I did actually just write that.
For years and years, I’ve been plagued with an anxiety; an anxiety that desperately craves certainty, that cannot be satiated with the idea that nothing is ever 100% safe. The anxiety pervades my whole life - from conversations with friends, where I need to check and double check plans, to spending hours obsessing over the terrible, dangerous, violent and disgusting things that I have the

B is for brother.
“But do you ever feel like your brother got all the attention at home?” asks my therapist.
I stop and think.
“No, it was shared equally between us”, I reply after a while.
“Hmmm”
I know that “hmmm”. Subtly judgemental and disapproving. I know what they want me to say. They want me to lament my struggles of growing up with J, who is autistic and has a learning disability. They want me to say that my parents lathered him with support and attention, while I was thrust into a

E is for exercise.
It’s freezing outside. Bitterly brisk winds and icy rain. Perfect. Winter is my favourite time of the year, because winter means warmth, which means layer upon layer of clothes. Sleeves, long trousers, beautiful.
I have scars everywhere; all over my body. Some are from childhood scrapes, others from surgery, but most are from years of self-harm. I won’t go into the gory details, but, for me, self-harm has been my most consistent way of ‘dealing with’ my mental illness.

S is for skin.
[TRIGGER WARNING: discussion of self-harm]
You can probably guess where I’m going with this post, but please put that to one side for a minute. I’ve been thinking a lot recently about skin and its relevance to mental health.
Mental illness affects anyone, regardless of the tone of their skin. Regardless of wrinkles, regardless of weight, regardless of stretch-marks and scars and moles and birthmarks and burns, regardless of pretty much any factor that you can think of. But